Chapter 2 — The Girl Who Stole Nothing (2)

“The coffee run,” I said, to break the silence. “How long were you watching?”

“Long enough to know that Vanessa Langley has an expiration date of her own.” He smiled, and it was sharp. “I’m good with computers, Ms. Carter. I’m better with people. And I’ve learned, in my line of work, that people who collect enemies the way Vanessa collects designer handbags tend to end up in the supply closet themselves eventually.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to — it just happened, a surprised sound that bounced off the toner boxes.

“Well,” I said, “when that day comes, I hope I’m there to see it.”

“You will be.” He said it with absolute certainty. “I’ll make sure of it.”

There was a crash from the main floor — something falling, someone yelping. Nico’s eyes flicked toward the door, and for half a second, something ancient and predatory moved behind them.

“Your public awaits,” I said.

“My public,” he said, “is a printer that’s been jamming since 2019. It has no idea how lucky it is.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“Ellie Carter,” he said, and my name sounded different in his mouth — like a promise, or a prophecy. “The quiet ones always win, darling. They hear everything.”

“Darling?”

“Old habit.” He winked. “I’m old.”

He was gone before I could ask what he meant.

I stood in the supply closet for a long moment, holding a magenta cartridge, and tried to remember the last time a man had made me feel like the most interesting person in a room without saying a single interesting thing about me.

I couldn’t.

And that, I realized, was a problem.

Because I was Ellie Carter, intern, nobody, free — and I was not supposed to be interested in anyone. Especially not a man who’d just told me, with the casual confidence of a king, that he’d make sure I got to see Vanessa Langley’s downfall.

That was not a normal thing for an IT guy to say.

That was a thing for a man who knew exactly who I was — and was very, very patient.

That night, I sat on the fire escape of my one-bedroom walk-up, eating instant noodles from a plastic cup, and thought about the crescent moon cuff link.

I’d seen it once before, in a book in my grandfather’s study. A history of the old houses of Europe — the families that had survived the plagues, the wars, the burnings. There was a chapter on a house called Vale.

The book said they’d gone extinct in the 1700s.

The book was wrong.

I pulled out my phone and typed a single message to the only person who might know the truth — my grandfather’s old butler, who had taught me more about the world’s shadows than any history class ever had.

“What do you know about the House of Vale?”

The reply came in three minutes, from an ancient man who never typed if he could help it:

“Why are you asking about a dead house, child?”

I stared at the screen.

Because I met one of them today, I didn’t type. Because he looked at me like he’d been waiting for me his whole life. Because he called me darling, and my heart did the thing, and I am terrified that I am exactly as lonely as I always suspected I was.

Instead, I typed:

“No reason. Just curious.”

I put the phone down, ate my noodles, and pretended I didn’t see the figure standing on the rooftop across the street, watching my window with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world.

The figure raised a hand — a small, almost imperceptible salute — and was gone.

I choked on my noodles.

“Just a temp,” I wheezed. “I’m just a temp.”

The wind carried back an answer I could have sworn I heard:

“Not for long.”